His Trial Bride, My Exit Plan

Flora was practically buzzing, dying to stir the pot. She fake-gasped. "Wow, jealous much? You even dragged a guy here just to mess with Warren."

"Jealous? What right does she have to be jealous?" Warren didn't even look at me. He pulled out a ring box, strutted up to Flora, and grabbed her hand. "Babe, put this on me."

Flora lit up. "I could... but this ring? Ew. Looks like it came out of a gumball machine."

She popped open her box—bam, glittery ring blinding everyone.

"Wear the one I had custom-made."

That sparkle? Definitely not a last-minute move. She'd planned the whole thing.

"Perfect. Love it. Thanks, babe." Warren tossed the ring I gave him and stuck out his hand.

Once it was on, he wiggled his fingers in my face. "Way more me, right?"

"Totally. Rings are like people—wrong fit's still wrong."

They cracked up.

And people? Actually clapped. Like it was their big day.

"Flora's got taste. That ring's fire."

"No lie. That old one looked ancient. This one slaps."

Every word hit like a punch.

Pushed aside, I pulled out my phone and called the one number I could dial in my sleep.

One ring.

"Groom's bailed. Ready for pickup."

Silence slammed the room.

Then a low voice, no hesitation: "Name your price. You're mine."

"Mia!" Warren yanked his hand back. "You seriously brought a guy just to screw with me? That's low. Try being more like your sister—have some self-respect."

I looked him dead in the eye, smirking. "You mean like hitting on her sister's fiancé? That kind of self-respect?"

His jaw clenched. "Whatever. This is still our engagement party. Don't make a scene."

I glanced at Flora clinging to his arm. "Oh, now it's OUR party? Where was that energy when she was playing bride?"

The laughter faded. Whispers kicked up. Some people even tried to smooth it over.

I didn't care. Scooped up the ring he'd ditched, turned to the crowd. "You all saw it. Warren Anderson just broke the engagement. I'm not marrying a guy just because my mom arranged it before she died."

Then I stared him down. "Sure, it's not flashy. It's taaffeite—super rare. My family heirloom. But yeah... you're right. You don't deserve it."

The room froze.

Warren stood there, stunned—like it finally hit him what he'd thrown away.